


Skin and Bones

by AfterMidnightRain



Category: All For The Game - Nora Sakavic
Genre: Andreil, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Blood and Violence, Cops AU, Crimes & Criminals, Implied Sexual Content, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Implied/Referenced Underage Sex, M/M, Minor Character Death, POV Alternating, Prostitution, Suicide, Wtf am I doing, andrew is a detective, ive never written a fic yikes, neil is sad, the foxes are all here bc I love them
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-07
Updated: 2021-03-09
Packaged: 2021-03-12 22:27:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply, Underage
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29891475
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AfterMidnightRain/pseuds/AfterMidnightRain
Summary: Mary dies when Neil is 15, and now he is alone, short on cash, and has no clue what to do. AU where Neil becomes a prostitute and Andrew is a detective. There will be crime and plot and murder and crime solving.
Relationships: Neil Josten/Andrew Minyard
Comments: 15
Kudos: 59





	1. Prologue - I've Been Running for so Long

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi!! Um so I've never written a fic before but I've had this idea floating around in my head for a few months now and wrote this a few weeks ago and so here we are. This idea is loosely inspired by the book "Shattered Glass" by Dani Alexander. Let me know if this is interesting to anyone so I know to post/keep writing more. Just incase it was unclear, there will be some implied sexual content (nothing graphic) and pls read tags for more info. Some background: this AU is if Mary dies two years earlier than in canon, and how Neil's path changes through one proposition (next chp will be the present). Also no exy rip. This is just the prologue for now but I have more written out sooo that'll be coming soon. Kinda angsty and eventual murder and crime shenanigans so enjoy the ride!  
> Big thank you to @lunesky for betaing I have shit grammar and shit spelling you are a godsend bb.  
> Songs for prologue:  
> Sedona by Houndmouth  
> Skin and Bones by Cage the Elephant

_Well hey little Hollywood_

_You're gone but you're not forgotten_

_You got the cash but your credit's no good_

_You flipped the script, you shot the plot_

_I remember, I remember when your neon used to burn so bright and pink_

_A Saturday night kind of pink_

_\- Houndmouth_

_Five Years Ago _

Stefan’s hands were numb, and his whole body was shivering despite the raging fire like the pits of hell themselves came to burn the world down just for the occasion. 

The flames illuminated his blank face, orange shadows dancing to a forbidden, forgotten song. And it was quiet. So, so quiet, only because Stefan couldn’t hear a thing as he watched his mother’s body burn. He didn’t notice that his hands burned when he peeled  ~~ Anna’s ~~ Mary’s melted flesh from the car seat, he didn’t notice when those burns began to bleed and crack in the sand, he didn’t notice the stitches he pulled near his ribs from just earlier that week as he buried her bones. He didn’t shed a tear, he didn’t make a sound. 

Stefan’s hands were numb, and he couldn’t hear a thing. 

*****

Neil had just spent money, too much money, on his new ID. The thing was he  _ knew _ it was too much, but what was he supposed to do about it? His mother’s contact saw he was “just a boy,” saw it as some sort of cash grab, and Neil just watched it all happen in stony silence. Except until after their transaction, where Neil explained that Harris was “a cocksucking bottom feeder who’s too incompetent to make enough money off grown clients so he has to manipulate a fifteen-year-old instead” and took some minute pleasure in Harris’ inability to meet his eyes and his “$5000 rebate”. Another problem was that Neil Josten was only sixteen (he asked for 18 to no avail), and thus his hand was forced into choosing less than favorable means of transportation. Hitchhiking. Nothing he hadn't done, but certainly more unpleasant than other options. So Neil walked in his shitty sneakers with his shitty duffel (and in a shitty mood) to the nearest truckstop and waited.

*****

“Hello, Sir. Are you headed off to somewhere near Arizona?” Neil hated talking to men. Older men. Men who made his blood thrum and memories scream and made a voice in his head chant  _ run run run _ . 

“Illinois. Why, you need something, boy?” The truck driver was gruff, his voice scratchy and his tank top stained with God knows what.

Neil picked Arizona out of the blue, so what was the difference would Illinois make? Perhaps a big city could be better this time around, like Chicago. Maybe help him blend into the crowds, fade into the chaotic city buzz. His mother likely had a cache somewhere nearby there, too. “I was hoping you could give me a ride, if that wouldn't be too much of an inconvenience for you, Sir?” Neil did his best to look polite and respectful and mentally stomped on his silent protests for escape.

“All right then, pretty boy. Get in.”

Neil refused to shiver. He would be fine. He was always fine.

*****

It started out like this. Neil was short on cash, and he  _ knew _ he was short on cash, and he was just offered $100 by the truck driver he learned to be Ray. Neil said yes before he knew what yes meant, but he quickly found out after hearing the sound of a zipper. Neil squeezed his eyes shut, and tried to stop gagging, and tried to stop thinking, and refused to acknowledge the rough hands pulling on his hair. He told himself it would be quick, he told himself it would be worth it, and then he stepped off the truck a hundred dollars richer, but somehow felt poorer all the same.

  
*****  
  


  
_Yeah the devils in a rush_

_And his duct tape makes you hush_

_Hey there Sedona let me cut you a deal_

_I'm a little hung over and I may have to steal your soul oh_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading :))  
> (Please note this work is not meant to diss or look down upon sex work. Do not say hateful/rude things in the comments about sex workers)


	2. You wanna find peace of mind (looking for the answers)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi again! Just some quick background: the foxes all work together in the same precinct with Wymack as chief (Kevin and Wymacks relationship giving off Jake Holt vibes haha), and the Robin mentioned here is Robin Cross (mentioned in Nora's ec). Also, remember when I said "no exy"?, well, ha, you'll see. Enjoy!!  
> (pls excuse any typos my brain can only handle so much)
> 
> TW: mentions of blood/dead bodies, suicide (updating in tags as I go)
> 
> Songs:  
> Cigarette Daydreams - Cage the Elephant  
> Quiet (stripped) - mlck  
> Run - COIN

_Present_

Sometimes Andrew really fucking hated his job. 

For starters, his coffee machine broke this morning and the Starbucks Frappuccino he was currently drinking was about two pumps of vanilla short. He then proceeded to spill the rest of said mediocre coffee when Seth (of all the god awful people) turned his head around to stare at Allison’s ass but continued walking forward and right into Andrew. As far as Andrew was concerned, Seth was lucky he didn’t get knifed in the ribs. _Was this called “making progress,” Bee?_ And now, to top it all off, there had been another murder. Well, murders really. And Andrew was _mad_ because this was the third and fourth ones in the past two months and they had nothing. 

He stared at the case file, although he really didn’t need to at this point; he had the whole thing memorized start to finish ten times over. He could see the dismembered bodies when he closed his eyes. The murders themselves didn’t bother Andrew as much as they should’ve, but the fact that all questions still remained unanswered was nothing short of infuriating. 

Each crime scene consisted of two things, or rather, two bodies. A client, typically fitting of the white collar profile, and a prostitute. Both scenes occurred at rundown motels that pay by the hour and require no ID for renting a room, only located a block away from each other. The motels were inconspicuous enough as to not attract lots of mainstream attention, ensuring that the bodies weren’t found too soon but would be noticed eventually, almost like some sick means of communication. But communicating to whom? 

Technically they did have something, but it was more of a mindfuck than anything else. Two bodies chopped to pieces, forensics showing the sex workers were mutilated postmortem, and two clients dead by gunshot wounds. And although it was clear the same concept was applied to both of the prostitutes’ bodies, the technique differed. The cuts in the first victim were precise and clean, as opposed to the jagged, sloppy style displayed in the second. It could be a sign of the killer getting more frenzied with bloodlust, it could be they had to rush, it could be symbolic of some psychotic message from the killer for all the precinct knew. The different technique could also imply something much less favorable; two separate killers, one for each prostitute. The clients died by apparent suicides, both by a bullet wound to the head. Forensics confirmed gunshot residue on both the men’s hands and that the angle of entry was typical of a suicide, too, only adding fuel to the fire. All evidence suggested that these men did, in fact, kill themselves. Currently, the working theory was the clients had first mutilated the highered sex worker, then proceeded to kill themselves afterwards. Each suit had blood covering their hands, on their button-ups and slacks, confirming that they were present for the slaughtering. A butcher knife with the clients’ fingerprints was found at both crime scenes, too, but that didn’t make this any more logical. Violent murders ending in suicides, happening _twice_ , just made no sense. No fucking sense at all.

He needed a break. 

“Andrew, hey Andrew, come here!” Nicky’s voice whined from across the present.

That was not the type of break Andrew meant. “No,” he muttered before walking past his cousin and out towards the door, brushing off his cousin without a second glance. He needed whiskey, a week off, and perhaps the new boots he saw online last week, but a cigarette would have to do. 

“If you’re wasting work hours, at least be useful and grab me a coffee while you're out,” Andrew heard Wymack say as he made his way past his chief’s office. 

‘Wait? He’s going out now? Andrew, this case is important. And you’re on the clock,” A voice much too annoying for Andrew’s patience today sounded out. Not fucking now, Kevin. If only there were others who could help pull the stick out of his ass besides Andrew.

“Kevin. We’ve been working for hours. He doesn’t need your permission for a break,” Dan supplied. Oh wait, there _were_ others. At this point Kevin likely needed a full on intervention to bring him and his ego back down to earth. God, he really needed this smoke.

*****

Neil was cold, which really isn't saying much, because cold was all Neil had known for the past five years. Except at this moment, Neil was _really_ cold, because his fucking client parked their car and reused to turn the heat on. _Douche_ . Frankly, Neil thought some heat was the least this man (Joseph? Joshua?) could do. When he was done, Neil wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, ignored the “Wanna come back to my place, Blue Eyes?” (he did _not_ ), took his cash and left.

Sadly, his shitty apartment, if it could even be called that, had the absolute worst heating, too. Neil was still cold, his toes beginning to lose feeling, and he desperately wanted to shower and scrub down every inch of himself. He made sure to keep quiet while kicking off his shoes knowing Robin was likely asleep in the next room over, and then the rest of his clothes followed soon after. He turned on the shower and sat on the edge of the tub, hoping that maybe the water would be at least lukewarm today. Perhaps if he tried hard enough he could wash himself down the drain with the dirty water, too.

His problem wasn’t just that he was trying to outrun his past anymore; Neil was trying to outrun himself. 

It’s easy to have trouble recognizing yourself if you weren't someone to begin with. Neil just couldn't see _himself_ no matter what he did (or didn't do). He saw his father’s cruel smile and flaming hair, he saw his mother’s disgust and outrage at what he had become. What he had always been. 

Not enough.

What started out as a one time thing morphed into reality, one blowjob becoming two, $100 becoming $1000, the type of life that requires you to build walls so high and thick that you start to forget there was anything outside that life to begin with. 

Sometimes Neil wondered if anything had really changed. He was still no one, he was still nothing, he was still alone. At this point, life was worse when he wasn’t alone, because oftentimes people meant, well, clients. Just because he was a prostitute didn’t mean he actually enjoyed sex. But life was all a game, and Neil sure as fuck could play it.

(Well, no, that’s not quite right. Technically he wasn’t alone anymore, but that’s an easy thing to forget after so many years of silence and pain as his only means of company. If there was one thing he was thankful for, it’d be Robin, and he’d be sure to go to Hell and back to ensure she stayed afloat even if Neil hadn’t breached the surface in years. He never meant to find her, but he was certainly glad he did).

Perhaps he hated himself, more carcass than living person. An abandoned mansion haunted by the ghost of his father and the distinct snick of a blade, the ghost of his mother and the sound of bones breaking. He wished he could burn his ghost town down, but memories didn’t seem to work like that. Neil also failed to see that his ghost town wasn’t just for the dead anymore, because he was now being haunted by the living, too. Hands and faces and lips and teeth and eyes that seemed to know too much and feel too real at night when Neil couldn't sleep.

When he got out of the shower, his bones felt like ice; cold, sharp, breakable. There was an ache that ran from the tips of his toes up to his shins and thighs that didn’t seem to settle in any one place no matter how high it climbed. All the lights were out and Neil’s head officially hit his pillow at 4:30 am. He was tired, but sometimes sleeping was worse than feeling like the walking dead. No matter how much he tried to resist, Neil eventually fell asleep. He only hoped he’d forget his nightmares by morning.

*****

Andrew demanded that today be better than yesterday (he did not _want_ it to be better, because Andrew does not _want_. He’s working on it), because yesterday sucked. 

After his coffee mishap, he, Kevin, Renee, and Dan spent most of the day pouring over the exact same casefile and got absolutely jackshit in return. He’d already gone to the gym that morning, so to blow off some steam he found a guy at his usual bar when his usual crew went to get drinks. Unfortunately for Andrew (or maybe more so for the guy), he had difficulty understanding the “hands to yourself rule.” All in all, not a good night.

So that’s why, despite it only being 9:12 in the morning, Andrew was happy to be up and running. Running as in chasing a perp, because who in their right mind would run for fun? The suspect, known as West, was 27, male, and allegedly knows all that goes on in the area, meaning he may know _something_ about the recent murders. They’d gotten the tip earlier this morning and acted as quickly as possible. By running, however, they would now have enough to bring him in for questioning at the station because he resisted arrest. They also got to him right as he was selling crack, so, there wasn’t really much of a debate at that point. The guy was the best thing they had to a lead, and Adnrew would take what he could get. 

His boots slapped hard on the pavement. His blood ran electric, thrumming with some otherworldly elixr. He could get high off the adrenaline. Andrew’s gun was tight on his hip and his lungs burned with lack of oxygen but he didn’t care as he chased West. Really, it was done too soon for Andrew’s taste. West ran down Eighth Street but neglected to account for the two cop cars blocking off the end of the street. With nowhere to turn, Andrew quickly caught up to the perp and slammed West’s body up against Kevin’s car. He said his usual spiel, and briefly considered punching the guy just to have something to do with his excess adrenaline before concluding that would likely be frowned upon (he wasn’t quite sure when he began considering if his actions were frown worthy or not). Whatever. Wymack can owe him for this. 

Rolling down his window as Andrew brought West around to the back door, Kevin leaned his head out. “Nice work. How’s it feel to actually do your job?” Kevin was well aware Andrew was one of the best, if not the best, detectives at the precinct-- but still. Nothing ever stops Kevin.

“How’s it feel to sit on your lazy ass while I do all the work?” Andrew bit back, his adrenaline finally starting to wear off and tiredness setting in. Ah fuck, this is why he hates running. “Day, get out. I’m driving.”

“But Andrew, I’m here already, and it was _fine_ a second ago-”

“Yes, Kevin. Because I was apprehending the suspect. Now move.” Kevin made a disapproving noise but acquiesced regardless, muttering something that sounded _awfully similar_ to a complaint about having Andrew as his partner, and together they headed back to the station.

*****

Most weekdays Neil could be found at Lucky’s Diner, an old establishment kept in relatively decent condition, one that was also used for less than legal activities (in the backroom only, of course). 

Neil knew a guy who used the diner to scout clients for his “business” (drug dealing), and Neil himself couldn’t argue that he, too, might have done something similar every once and a while. All of this was rather ironic, seeing as the diner used to belong to a retired cop, and now hadan owner who skims money and simply turns a blind eye to prostitution and selling drugs. Also, the pay was shit, because tips were at a minimum unless the diner was extremely busy. And even then, tips weren’t all that promising. 

Neil worked there for the extra cash, yes, but also because he needed something. Something more than the life he lived, the job he had. He had never intended to stick around Chicago all those years ago, but found out how to make cash quick and easily enough, and soon began catching the attention of others. And then he was getting a tattoo on his inner left wrist, promises of _‘It’ll be better if you just join the ring. I’ll watch out for you, keep you safe. Keep the creeps away_ ’ rattling around in his head. A tattoo that marked him with more than just ink. He had nowhere to go and no one to turn to, unwilling to contact Stuart unless it was life or death. 

And so, just before his seventeenth birthday, Neil Josten officially became a prostitute working under a pimp. His “boss,” Darren, was in his late twenties and helped Neil with regulating clients, often sticking just a bit too close for Neil’s comfort. 

That crowd dropped by the diner every once and awhile, but to Neil, it was just separate enough that it could feel like a shitty escape. He would wipe down tables, take orders and serve food, and get lost in the monotony of it. Occasionally customers would send him lingering glances, and after a few too many Neil might offer up his price, and he might go out to the parking lot, and he might have some extra cash added to his “tips” by the end of his shift. His current shifts were from nine to five, sometimes six, leaving open a large window for clients at night. After working there for a year, he finally had a solid, dependable schedule, something he hated but appreciated nevertheless.

Handed a death sentence at birth, Neil felt like his body never belonged to him to begin with, not while on the run and not now. He felt more like a child’s art project: construction paper with painted handprints all over, only to be torn and crumpled while being stuffed into a backpack, and eventually hung up on a fridge, bare and exposed to the world. Ugly and stripped and sloppily thrown together by foreign hands. He didn’t have a family, he didn't have a future, and he didn’t have himself.

The job itself wasn't much, no, but sometimes it felt like all Neil had. 

*****

Andrew was starving. After a long interrogation, they had gotten some information, a baseline that wasn't there before. For starters, the suit victim at the second crime scene, Alfred Todd, was known to frequent that motel before. Clearly cheating on his spouse was nothing new to him before his eventual demise. 

And second: a new drug was on the market, something called Exy. Andrew sat silently with Kevin while listening to West prattle on about many irrelevant things (essentially spilling his guts in hopes of charges against him being dropped), occasionally plucking worthwhile things every now and then. While Exy had no relation to the case, Andrew knew it’d cause a spike in criminal activity and they’d have to come down hard. New drugs mean tmore eager customers, which meant more dealers, and nothing good ever came of it. Andrew could recall phantom memories of addiction well enough, familiar with the aching pains and restless energy, locked bathrooms and manic smiles, a shell of a body existing while its soul floated away, untethered. 

Point being, he was not pleased with this development. After wrapping up, he left Kevin to finish up his notes (Andrew felt no need to take his own notes, because surprisingly enough, an eidetic memory can actually be useful every now and again), and to figure out how to deal with West. He then headed to get food, because as previously mentioned, he was fucking hungry, and really needed to do something about it. Before finding West, when they had done a brief perimeter check, Andrew recalled seeing a diner nearby, Lucky’s. He’d yet to have stopped by despite being in Chicago for around a year now, but figured now was as good of a time as any. He could listen in for any chatter about the latest murders (no matter how hard they tried to keep them under wraps, there was only so much you could do) or news about the neighborhood whilst also getting decent food. Maybe, just maybe, something there could crack this case wide open.

So Andrew pulled up to the diner, yanked open the door, and looked forward to having pancakes for dinner.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you liked this chapter! There will be more insight into character backgrounds/relationships next chp. I'm aiming for updates every 1-2 weeks. Thanks for the support so far :)


End file.
